


The Boys of Summer

by TheResurrectionist



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Brotherly Bonding, Crack Treated Seriously, F/M, Gen, Italian Mafia, Pregnant Barbara, Pudding? Pudding., The Author Regrets Everything, shoutout to Denny's
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-11
Updated: 2019-08-11
Packaged: 2020-08-19 07:44:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20206192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheResurrectionist/pseuds/TheResurrectionist
Summary: The bat bros are ride or die. And if that means searching for a very specific kind of pudding in the middle of the night so pregnant Babs doesn’t kill Dick, and fighting off the subsequent mafia hit job that follows, then they’re gonna fucking do that, you know?





	The Boys of Summer

**Author's Note:**

> For an anon on twitter who requested "Jason and Tim and Pudding." I don't know why my mind went here, but maybe because I just re-read "Life in the Fast Lane" and wanted more brotherly shenanigans for these two. 
> 
> Enjoy anon!

Dick shut the door to the patio quietly, pressing a hand to the frame to dampen any excess noise. He smiled at Jason, but it was belied by the dark circles under his eyes. 

“Thanks for coming,” he said, close to a whisper. “I know it’s late.”

Wrong. For Jason, it was still early. 

“Where’s the fire?” he asked, shifting from foot to foot. The small balcony creaked, wood protesting under his weight. Dick sent him the closest thing he could muster to a glare. “You made it sound like an emergency.”

“It is an emergency,” Dick sighed, pushing a hand through his hair. “It’s Babs.”

Jason felt his heart skip a beat. “Is she okay? Is the baby alright?” He patted his jeans, finding his phone in his back pocket. “I’ll call Bruce--”

“No, don’t.” Dick’s hands grasped his, stalling him. “Babs is fine. So is the baby.” 

“Jesus,” Jason exhaled, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Warn a guy next time, huh?”

Dick smiled. For a second, in the low light, the weight seemed to lift off his shoulders. “Not my fault this kid’s gonna have the most overprotective uncle ever.”

“And the most annoying grandpa,” Jason muttered, ignoring Dick’s pointed cough. “Okay, so now that we’ve established that nobody is in imminent danger of death or serious injury--”

“Yep,” Dick cut in, “Except me. I am in imminent danger of serious injury.”

“Let me guess,” Jason whistled, spotting a pillow on the IKEA futon just inside the apartment. “She exiled you to the couch. Poor Dickie’s got back pain from that monstrosity in heather quilting.” 

“How’d you know it was heather?” Dick asked, rubbing a hand across his face. Jesus, he looked exhausted. “Babs didn’t like the manatee grey.”

“She has good taste,” Jason said, raising his eyebrows. Dick rolled his eyes. For a second, it felt like old times again. “So she must have a good reason to kick your bony ass out of the bedroom.”

Dick sighed. For a long moment, they watched Blüdhaven together from the balcony, silence hanging over them. 

“Pudding.”

“Pudding?”

“You heard what I said,” Dick groaned, pointing a finger at him. “And before you start mocking me, let’s establish that one of us has a heavily pregnant wife, and the other makes eggs on a Campbell soup can you cut in half and put on top of your stove.”

“It gets a better crisp that way!”

“Look,” Dick said, sidestepping his protest easily. “Here’s the mission. I need you to find a very specific brand of pudding for Babs. I tried to get some after work today, but I’m pretty sure it was limited release around Halloween. She almost disemboweled me when I came home without it.”

_ Hence the pillow, _Jason thought. “Okay, so what’s the problem? Order some on Amazon and tell Babs to be patient.”

Dick stared at him, some sort of internal conflict playing out between his eyes. “I...can’t.” he gritted out, behind clenched teeth. “Jason, it’s okay when she yells, but the crying…”

Jason could suddenly see Babs on the ground, bleeding from her chest. Babs in the hospital, Bruce by her side as she sobbed over lifeless legs, Dick holding her hand as she tried out her wheelchair for the first time--

“Say no more,” he said, cutting off that thought. “Text me the name. I’ll check out some of the grocery stores in Gotham. Maybe they’ll have it.”

Dick looked dubious, yet eternally grateful. He clapped Jason on the shoulder. 

“Thank you,” he said, eyes suspiciously watery. “Thank you, Jason.”

He stepped back after a second, awkward. Saluting Dick, he hauled himself over the balcony. 

“You’ll have your pudding by sunrise.”

He heard Dick snort above him. 

“Red Hood, professional pudding tracker.”

Jason grinned, sliding onto his bike. 

“Only for you, darling.”

* * *

Tim was waiting for him in front of the first 24-hour deli he’d stopped to check. The second Jason saw him, he groaned. 

“We’re not fucking doing this again.”

“What?” Tim asked, his patented innocent expression on full power. “Dick asked me to help you. I wanna help.”

Jason jabbed his kickstand out, turning off the engine. “What did Dick really say?”

“‘Do not, under any circumstances, let Jason murder anyone for pudding. There is a better way.’” 

“Pretty high of a bar.”

Tim cocked his head. “Is it?”

Jason glared at him, unwilling to rise to the bait. The younger man was a lot like Bruce sometimes--he knew exactly which buttons to press. 

“Wipe that smirk off your face,” he ordered, trying to channel a little bit of the old man for good measure. “We have an important mission. You wanna help, you better haul ass.”

Tim nodded seriously. “So what are we looking for?”

“Pudding.”

“Pudding?”

* * *

“_Limited edition _pudding?” Tim asked incredulously as they left their third late-night grocery store. “I mean, the odds that we even find it--”

“Shhh,” Jason said, pulling out his cell phone. He dialed a long, complicated number from memory. “We’re gonna fucking find it, okay?”

“It’s from Halloween,” Tim lamented. “That was almost ten months ago--”

“Shut the fuck up,” Jason said, as the dial tone pinged in his ear. “I’m making a call.”

“To who?”

“This is Hood,” he growled, dropping his voice a few octaves. “Is he in?”

“_Let me check_.”

Tim was watching him suspiciously. 

“_Who is that_?” he mouthed, “_the mafia?” _

Jason flipped him off in a way he hoped conveyed _ why do you always assume I know the mafia _ clearly enough. 

The line crackled. A voice came on a second later, sounding pissed. 

“_Cosa vuoi?” _

“Ciao, Antonio,” Jason said. “I’m calling in a favor.”

“_Fanculo,” _there was more swearing in Italian, then a sigh. “_Figlio di puttana._ _You meet me at Caesar’s in half an hour, okay?”_

“Deal.” Jason ended the call, glancing at Tim. The younger man was frozen on the curb in disbelief. Jason braced himself. “Listen, just because I have a phone number--” 

“_YOU KNOW THE MAFIA!” _

* * *

Antonio opened the door, pausing. 

“Who the hell is he?”

“Make a Wish,” Jason said, pushing past the older man into the backroom. “Can’t let him die from cancer without getting shot a few times, eh?”

Antonio tapped Tim’s domino mask, frowning. 

“You ever been shot, _ ragazzo? _”

“Yes.” Tim said beatifically. “But never in the head.”

The Italian man stared at Jason, frown deepening. “You--”

“I have the item here,” Jason said quickly, producing a scrap of paper from his pocket. “Ten thousand when it’s delivered. Another five for your…” he glanced at Tim, who was examining the Beretta bracketed behind the door. “...discretion.”

Antonio took the scrap of paper, unfolding it. He read it twice, mouthing the words, like he wasn’t sure. 

“I find people,” he looked up, mouth curling in irritation. “What is this _ cazzate_?”

“Pudding.” 

“_Pudding_?”

* * *

“So Antonio’s some kind of headhunter?” Tim asked, skipping along the curb behind Caesar’s. “And he owes you a favor?”

“More like several.” Jason muttered. “I saved his life once.”

“Why would you save his life? He probably kills people!”

A silence fell between them as they finally reached his bike. Jason leapt on, turning over the engine more aggressively than necessary. 

“_I _kill people.”

Tim accepted the helmet he threw at him, putting it on over his domino mask. “Yeah, but you only kill bad people.”

“I’m willing to kill anyone if we can find this fucking pudding.”

Tim sat behind him, grasping his waist with both hands. “See, that sounds like something you’d say but not actually do. I mean, would you kill me if you could get the pudding now?”

“Without hesitation.”

“You’re bluffing to hide the actual fear and anxiety the premise of killing me gives you.”

“Fuck off with your psychoanalysis.” Jason muttered, kicking them off from the asphalt.

* * *

Antonio called them a few hours later from a burner cell phone and gave them an address. Jason hauled Tim out of Denny’s halfway through their pancakes, eager to get this over with. 

Tim wasn’t as pleased. 

“You know, they have to-go boxes right at the front.” he muttered into Jason’s jacket, holding on tightly as they wove between traffic. “The Denny’s by the Manor doesn’t even carry white chocolate chip blueberry short stacks anymore. I swear Bruce told them it was too unhealthy.”

“Are you almost done pouting?”

“No, I have more.”

Jason tuned out his babbling as they slid into the pier outbuilding lot, cranking the engine over. Together, they headed toward the dock, silently watching each other’s backs. 

“Hood,” Antonio said. He was holding a briefcase. “As promised.”

Jason nodded. “Let me see it.”

“Why?”

“Because I fucking asked, that’s why.”

Antonio glared at him, kneeling and setting the briefcase down. He cracked open the top, revealing the bright label of Pam’s Golden Caramel Pudding, 2018 Halloween edition. Jason swore he felt his heart stutter. 

“That’s the stuff,” he said, nodding at Antonio. “Make a Wish kid, pay the good man.”

They turned to Tim, who handled his surprise with an admirable amount of grace. “Right...yeah, I just gotta get your...routing number?”

Antonio shrugged, handing him a card. Tim pulled out his phone, entering it quickly into a banking app. 

“Done,” he said, as Antonio’s phone pinged. The man glanced at the screen, then nodded, looking pleased. 

“Where do kids like this get that kind of money?” he asked Jason. 

“They get stipends,” Jason fibbed, keeping his voice level. “You know, spend their potential lifetime earnings in a few days before they die horribly from cancer.”

“He doesn’t look like he is dying from cancer.”

Tim crossed his arms. “Well that’s rather ableist of you to say.”

The older man blinked, then turned back to Jason.

“Pleasure doing business with you.”

“And you as well.”

They waited until Antonio was gone before heading back to the bike, Tim holding on to the briefcase with all his might. 

“Dick’s place?” Tim asked, glancing behind them at the dock. The sun was just about to rise, a sliver of orange peeking over the horizon.

Jason sighed. 

“Dick’s place.”

* * *

At five in the morning, the small wooded area around Dick’s apartment was downright peaceful. Jason shut off the bike as quickly as he could, walking it to the small parking space under the balcony he’d hidden it in before. Seagulls screamed above them, which--for Blüdhaven--was downright idyllic. 

“Is he awake?” Tim whispered as they climbed the porch up to the second floor. “I don’t wanna wake Babs.”

“He’s on the couch,” Jason said, putting a finger to his mouth. “Stay here while I put the briefcase in the kitchen, then we’ll go.”

Inside the apartment, Dick was sprawled across the IKEA futon, frowning into his pillow. Jason allowed himself a few seconds to stare at the dorkiness of it, wishing he could take a picture. 

He’d just set the briefcase down on the tile when Tim knocked a short pattern on the wood, rushed. 

_ incoming _

Dick awoke with a flash, trained from childhood to respond to that knock. He eyed Jason, then the briefcase, processing. 

“We got it,” Jason whispered, trying not to panic. “Might have been followed.”

“_Followed_?”

Outside, Tim was gesturing for them to lay low. He pointed toward the end of the block, where two black SUVs were racing down the street. 

“Fuck,” Jason said, reaching for his silencer. “You got anything quiet?”

Dick reached behind the refrigerator, pulling out a pair of electrified escrima sticks and lighting them up. They buzzed softly, framing the man’s hands in blue light. 

“Tim?” he asked, turning around. On the floor behind them, Tim had already broken down a standing lamp, pulling out the metal pole and twirling it above his head. 

“We just bought that.” Dick sighed. 

“We’ll buy you another one,” Jason said, twisting on the second silencer. He hefted both guns up, examining them in the light. “Anyone got dibs?”

“My dibs is no killing people.” 

“That’s not what dibs means and you know it.”

The two SUVs screeched to a stop in front of the apartment. Six men got out of each car, dressed from head to toe in all black. Jason sighed. 

_ Pavernelli’s people. Of fucking course. _

Dick seemed to be following his train of thought. 

“You wanna tell me why one of Gotham’s oldest crime gangs followed you to Blüdhaven?”

“...Not really.”

“I’ll take point,” Tim said, heading for the stairs. “You guys pull up from behind."

With a step into the shadows, he disappeared. Dick blinked. 

“They know it’s just pudding in the briefcase, right?”

Jason cracked his neck. 

“Well, they’re gonna be in for one hell of a surprise.”

* * *

One trip for clean clothes and a shower, and another to the nearest IKEA outlet open at seven in the morning, and things were almost back to normal. 

Jason left Dick with the pudding and instructions not to call him until the birth. Tim gave him the new lamp and apologized profusely over the flat cardboard box. 

It was nine in the morning when they were done. The city was finally waking up around them. Jason was bone-tired. Tim kept yawning in his ear on the back of the bike, laying on him more than holding on to him as they drove home. 

Wayne Manor was quiet, which meant Bruce had been out patrolling last night and was probably sleeping it off. _ Good, _ Jason thought, testing the weight of Tim on his shoulders. _ Maybe he won’t notice boy wonder here was gone. _

_ Bullshit. _

Jason carefully maneuvered Tim onto his shoulders, cradling his head as he pulled him off the bike. With a bit-off groan, he headed toward the front door, already dreaming about his own bed. 

“All work and no play makes Timmy a dull boy,” he muttered, pushing into the kitchen, then toward the back stairs. “Jesus, you snore loudly, kid.”

He turned around the corner to find Bruce in a bathrobe, standing at the top of the stairs. He had a mug of coffee in one hand, a newspaper in the other. 

“This isn’t what it looks like,” Jason blurted out on instinct. “He’s alive.”

_ And covered in blood. And passed out. On my shoulders. _

Bruce’s eyebrow quirked. 

“Alright,” Jason said, stepping around him on the stairs. “Good talk. Nice to see you again, we’ll chat soon.”

He hurried into Tim’s room, dumping him on the bed. The kid didn’t even wake up as he bounced on the mattress, settling in an awkward position on his side that didn’t look close to comfortable. 

For a second, he hesitated. Then, haltingly, he reached out and smoothed Tim’s hair down, shifting him slightly so he was laying on his back. 

“The things I do for you,” Jason muttered, fighting off the wave of affection that was battering towards him. “Jesus.”

With a sigh, he propped open Tim’s window and dove out of it, ready for a bed of his own. 

The End

**Author's Note:**

> My best attempt at Italian:
> 
> “Cosa vuoi?” -- Who is it? 
> 
> "Fanculo, Figlio di puttana." -- Fuck (you). Son of a bitch. 
> 
> "ragazzo" -- boy/lad
> 
> "cazzate" -- bullshit


End file.
